As I slide across the backseat of Dr. Van Tassel’s cherry-red Solstice early Saturday afternoon, she blasts me with a big smile in the rearview mirror and says, “Imogene, honey, how are you? How wonderful to see you!”
This is how I find out she knows exactly what’s going on. Dr. Van Tassel is nice, but not gushingly, welcome-to-my-Solstice nice.
“I’m good, Dr. Van Tassel. How are you?”
Jessa cranks around in her seat to grin at me. “She’s great. Dad came back from France last night and brought super-fancy champagne, and guess who’s been guzzling it since?”
Dr. Van Tassel swats at her daughter’s shoulder, hidden under glossy red-gold hair that matches her own, though hers is chopped short around her plump chin. “That was a mimosa, and it’s a breakfast drink.” She eyes me again in the mirror. “And it was two hours ago.”
“Mmkay, Dr. Denial.” Jessa snickers.
Dr. Van Tassel adjusts her glasses—huge, round, red frames like twin stop signs. Jessa thinks they’re hipster-chic, but Dr. Van Tassel doesn’t care about that. She doesn’t know the difference between pearl gray and heather gray, between boot-cut and straight-leg trousers, not the way Lindy does. Her walk-in closet is only a quarter filled, and mostly with jeans, T-shirts, and patterned scrubs. And while their house is perfectly decorated by a professional, all chrome and leather, slick wall sculptures, it’s only because Dr. Van Tassel had no desire to decorate herself, which seems the best reason to do a dumb thing like hiring an interior designer.
“How are things, Immy? How’s school? It’s been a little while, hasn’t it?” Translation: I know your dad is missing.
“School’s good.”
“That’s wonderful. And how’s your stepmother?” Translation: I know your dad is missing.
“She’s good too.”
“Wonderful. I’m so glad to hear it, honey.” Translation: I know your dad is missing, you poor, poor unfortunate waif.
The ride into the city isn’t too long. After half an hour on the highway, the skyscrapers of downtown Boston rear up in front of us, then the brownstones. On the west side off the highway, the sun catches and halos the coppery glass complex of Good Shepherd Hospital. Not the biggest hospital in town, but it is the shiniest. “Okay, girls,” Dr. Van Tassel says as she pulls into the employee parking lot. “You have everything? T passes? Jessa, you have your cell phone?” It’s obvious she does; it’s still in front of her face.
“Actually, Dr. Van Tassel, do you think it’d be okay if I talked to you inside? For a minute?”
Jessa looks up. “What? Why?”
Dr. Van Tassel’s eyes meet mine in the mirror, and I give my best look of secret sadness. Translation: I am a poor, poor unfortunate waif whose dad is missing. “Right. Okay, honey. Sure thing.”
“Just for a minute.”
“Of course, Imogene, of course.”
“Seriously? Aren’t we shopping?”
Dr. Van Tassel grits her teeth. “How about you hang out in the waiting room for a bit, Jessa?”
Jessa sighs. “What am I supposed to do in a hospital?” Then she pulls out her phone and plays Fruit Ninja while we walk. I’m shocked her thumbs aren’t worn down to nubs.
The ER entrance by the ambulance bay is dotted with squat, frosted shrubbery. A cluster of hospital workers smokes off the path, arms crossed against the wind that tugs at their scrubs and white coats. In the waiting room, the plastic chairs are half-full, though no one seems on the verge of death. A middle-aged woman in a stained sweater cradles her bandaged left hand and blinks at the television mounted to the wall, while a young gray-faced guy hunches down in the corner, sniffling miserably. Jessa grimaces and picks a seat as far across the room from him as possible. Her mom waves to a cop and a paramedic as we pass, and they toast her with Styrofoam cups of coffee.
Dr. Van Tassel’s office is on the fourth floor, in the pediatrics department. She sits at her desk and offers me a seat; there are grown-up-size chairs and miniature child-size chairs lined up against a wall papered with crayon and color pencil drawings, and photos of adorable kids in varying shades of sick. I pull over a grown-up chair and sit, cross my legs, then uncross them and grip the sides of the seat.
“Tell me what you want to talk about, Imogene,” she says, leaning in across her desk.
After yesterday’s debacle with Lindy, I’ve been thinking about how to play this smartly. “Okay. Okay, so . . . I was hoping you could tell me how to look at some medical records.”
She winces. “You mean your father’s? Honey, I don’t think that’s for you to worry about.”